lay there beside me. As absent. So sad. And I knew what it was. For those black birds with clock hand how it had taken everything. I lit a cigarette, and puffs of smoke rose to the ceiling, forming rings like those who never surround and our fingers. As much as I wandered down memory found no anxiolytic to stop the tears of feelings deep as dreams full of monsters and giant hands. I sent my army to the reserve, since the armistice was a fact. After months of battle, the war had ended in a draw. As usual, on the other. There are never winners and losers. Just defeated. And you and I éramos.Así I got out of bed. You gave me back, and in another dimension, another world than mine. Since then others, but would go back too often, at least me, because, as Benjamin Prado one of his books, nostalgia is a monster that devours three syllables right.
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